


through struggle to the stars

by JaguarCello



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Politics, Recreational Drug Use, Roman Catholicism, Rowing, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:10:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras - grumpy, caffeine junkie, politics student and part-time protester - meets a bloke in a coffee shop on campus. <br/> Grantaire - reluctant rower, heavy-drinking, classics student and rooftop-clamberer - meets a bloke in a coffee shop on campus. <br/> Things, after that, get more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	through struggle to the stars

**Author's Note:**

> their university is based vaguely on the University of Birmingham, and the title is a translation of their (our) motto, per ardua ad alta.   
>  Grantaire is a lapsed Catholic, and is depressed, and has a few other issues he has yet to really take notice of. 
> 
> tw: mentions of past self harm, mentions of binge drinking, drugs (mainly weed), and alcohol abuse. also, i will be getting on my soapbox a bit probably

It was early October, and a shaft of sunlight had filtered through the trees to land in Enjolras’s coffee cup. He took a sip, and glanced over at Combeferre, who was reading some sort of real-life medical horror story. Combeferre looked at him steadily above his glasses, brown hair ruffled by the breeze.

“What?” he said, sipping his own coffee, and putting his book aside. “Do I have something on my face? Is this a meet-cute? Because well, I’ve known you for  a fair while now –“

Enjolras smiled, and pushed his hair out of his face; it was getting long enough to touch his shoulders now. “It’s just – I’m glad we’re friends,” and Combeferre rolled his eyes.

“It’s almost  three o’clock in the afternoon,” he said. “You can’t be drunk already – “

“No,” Enjolras said, raising an eyebrow. “No, I mean – I got your text, and it’s brilliant, and I was waiting for the right time to congratulate you.” He took another sip of his coffee.

“Thanks,” Combeferre said. “I had to put this lankiness to some good use, didn’t I? Plus, hopefully, there’ll be lots of hot blokes for you to ogle at practices,” and Enjolras almost snorted.

“I promised myself a long time ago that I would never engage myself with any sort of sportsman,” he said, draining his coffee. The clock-tower chimed across the quad, and Combeferre shoved his book into his bag.

“Anyway,” he said. “I have to go. Betty awaits me – “

“I can’t _believe_ you called your cadaver Betty,” Enjolras complained. Combeferre scrunched up his receipt and threw it at Enjolras’s face.

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe you once had a sex dream involving Trotsky,” he said, and before Enjolras could come up with something clever, he had gone.

He moved their coffee cups back onto the tray, and saw a guy wearing Costa Coffee uniform approaching, and so he stacked their plates, as well.

“Thanks,” said the guy. He was wearing a name tag with GRANTAIRE printed on it, but that was about the neatest thing about his appearance. He was tall and well-muscled, and peeking out from the edge of his sleeve was a great green-blue tattoo, dancing above faint scars on his forearm. The guy reached out to take the tray, and Enjolras looked at him and saw green-blue eyes below a shock of dark hair, and before he could blurt out what he wanted to do with his tongue – _those collarbones, those lips_ \- he left.

He headed to the library, cursing the day he was born, and cursing this _Grantaire_ for having the temerity to exist, and buried himself in the fall of the USSR, reading until he could not think about green-blue eyes or grins. It was only when he heard a door slam, far above him, that he realised it must be late. He looked outside, and saw – behind the burning red brick of the clock-tower and the green grass in front of the Great Hall – that the sun was beginning to set; the sky was kingfisher bright, fading from orange to blue. He swore, and reached in his pocket for his phone. _Shit_ , he thought, and looked about himself. It wasn’t there, even in the emergency pocket in which he kept a toothbrush and some spare weed for Jehan, as well as a cereal bar. _Shit shit shit_ , he thought again, and shoved his books into his bag.

 Costa was shut. Only the cashpoint was lit up green by students rattling through their loans. The chairs had been stacked up. He swore, and, pulling a piece of paper from his notepad, wrote a note:

_To whomever opens this place in the morning, I have left my phone here. It’s an iPhone 5. The case is red. I’d be much obliged if someone could please contact me -_  and then he added his email address. He stuck the note to the door, and turned for home. The sky was darkening, and as he walked past the sports pitches he heard an owl.

 His house was small. He did not quite believe how many people fitted in it, especially when the people next door came over as well, and it was quite messy. The doorbell, he noted, seemed to have broken again, so he straightened the sign reading _don’t fucking touch unless you have a deathwish – yes, postie, this includes you_ in Courfeyrac’s handwriting, and knocked. Marius answered, eating brownies from the tin.

“Alright,” he said, and blinked. “You didn’t have your keys?” Enjolras pointed to the bowl on the shelf in the hall, almost hidden behind stacks of takeaway leaflets and invitations to various events at the Guild of Students.

“I’m not infalliable, you know,” he said. “Lost my phone. Met a guy, but I didn’t say anything on account of him having everything I look for in a guy – “

“You mean really really sarcastic, and dark-haired? Or are we narrowing it down to “has good taste in shoes” or “has tattoos” or “probably has to shave three times a day –“ Courfeyrac walked in, followed by Combeferre.

“There’s nothing wrong with sarcasm,” Enjolras noted. “Hey, Combeferre – don’t suppose you noticed whether I lost my phone?”

“He was knuckle-deep in Betty within ten minutes of leaving you, so he was probably more focused on that,” Bahorel said, poking his head round the door. “This bloke – does he have a name?”

“You don’t even _live_ here,” said Marius, and Courfeyrac leaned in to wipe some brownie mixture from his cheek with an orange-painted fingernail. “I call dibs on any news about hot guys,” he went on.

“Your girlfriend won’t be happy to hear that,” Courfeyrac told him, and he ruffled Marius’s dark hair. “Hey, when you blush all your freckles disappear – “

“Éponine’s not my girlfriend,” Marius said, scowling. “She’s a very good friend, who –“

“Who would actually literally walk to the ends of the earth to like, bring you a toothpick?” chimed in Feuilly, who pushed past them all to get to the door. “Speaking of – does anyone need me to nick anything from work tomorrow? And I’m just going to get some fags, if you wanted to come – “ and he looked at Bahorel, who checked his pocket and swore. Courfeyrac did the same.

“We’ll be along in a minute,” Courfeyrac said. “We just want to hear about the hot guy,” and Feuilly rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” said Enjolras. He pointed a warning finger at Courfeyrac, who smiled far too sweetly to look innocent. “Not a word to Bossuet and Joly. They’ve been betting on this for _months_ –“ and when Courfeyrac nodded, he shrugged. “His name’s Grantaire, I think. Well, that’s what it says on his name tag. He’s tall – maybe Combeferre’s height? – and he has dark hair and tattoos, and he’s _beautiful_ but in a rugged sort of way. Like young Stalin, maybe – “

“Oh my God,” Bahorel said, shoving his arms through his jacket. “You fucking fancy Stalin. I had _money_ on Trotsky, you fascist bastard – “

“The Costa on campus?” Marius asked, eyes gleaming. “Can we go and look?”

“He’s not a museum piece. He should be in the open and be appreciated, like the Elgin Marbles,” said Courfeyrac. “Speaking of which, we need to sign that petition thingy and send it to the Guild – “

“Oi!” yelled Feuilly from outside. “I’m leaving without you, you randy fucks,” and Bahorel and Courfeyrac scrambled for the door.

Inside, in the sudden quiet, Marius looked between Combeferre and Enjolras. “I’m making pasta,” he said, helpfully. “The brownies were a sort of _starter_. And we have vodka, actually, so we can have – vodka pasta – “

“Lord preserve us from your cooking,” Enjolras said, but he smiled.

The vodka pasta was as bad as it sounds, and Enjolras was feeling a little buzzed as he went to his room. His was at the back of the house, and he could look out into the tiny garden and see the small patch of blue sky that had not faded into inky black. He pulled over his laptop, and opened up his emails. Sifting through the flotsam and jetsam – petitions, awareness campaigns about Palestine from Feuilly, emails from the LGBT society about the _travesty_ of UKIP marching at London Pride – he spotted nothing of importance, and then he saw it. An email from someone he didn’t recognise, with the subject **iPhone wanker loses phone and dignity in Birmingham**.

He opened it.

_Hey,_

_I’m pretty bad at emails, so I’m sorry. But I found your phone in Costa today and I wanted to tell you that 1. I can meet you to return it whenever and 2. your passcode needs to be stronger than “1789” and 3. when you practically ran away it made me laugh so hard I almost dropped the tray. Seriously pal, your run is ridiculous. I may only be a participant in a sport for which I sit down, but bloody hell._

_This might not go through, depending on the uni’s language filters and God’s weirdness filters, but if not I’ll be in Costa from three pm every day except wednesday (training i.e. mucking about in boats), so. yeah._

_cheers, hope all is well with you etc_

_grantaire (guy with the dragon tattoo) (shit, that sounds like a great new film idea. maybe not in Sweden. maybe in like, hungary. yeeeah I’d be so up for dicking around on the danube. guessing youre not a film student so I might have to find someone else to direct…)_

Enjolras sat up, and switched on the light. This was – unexpected. “Jehan!” he yelled, hoping that Jehan – in the front room so that his cacti had a better chance at life – would hear, but there was no reply. He scowled, missing the group WhatsApp more than ever before. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, and shoved his duvet aside, but then Jehan poked his head round the door.

“Sorry,” he said, hair in a loose bun. “I was chatting with Éponine. We think we’re going to use dreamcatchers the next time we’re high, so that all the good thoughts can remain in our systems,” he added, and waggled his fingers like a two-a-penny magician. He stopped. “Did you want something? Sorry, Marius made brownies – “

“Weed brownies,” Enjolras said, slowly, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. “Yeah, actually. I could do with some help writing an email to Grantaire – “

“Grantaire?” Jehan asked, and Enjolras saw a flash of recognition in his face, just for a second. “Oh, the hot guy,” he added. Enjolras nodded, and shoved the laptop towards him.

“Okay,” Jehan said, sucking at his teeth slightly. “So, the missing phone and the dreamboat – oh my God, that’s a pun, maybe? – are together, which is – good. You can see him again! And get your phone back, and he’s quite witty, actually,” and he clicked on Grantaire’s profile. It opened up to a Facebook page with a photo of him smiling, a bottle of wine in his hands, wearing a grey shirt. Enjolras swallowed. Jehan clicked through the sections. Grantaire _liked_ : The Manic Street Preachers, the university LGBT society, a couple of joke pages, Vincent van Gogh, Brideshead Revisited, and a page to do with trams. “So, he’s queer,” Jehan said. And he’s single, apparently, and he’s listed his political views as _contrary when existent_. I like him,” and he handed the laptop back. “This is a call you have to make, with regards to the email,” he said, mysteriously, and left the room. Enjolras swore, and started to compose himself, and then his email.

_Hi there,_

_Thanks so much for getting in touch. I can come by Costa tomorrow, or then we could wait until Monday? I do quite need my phone, but it’s quite interesting existing in such a Luddite world. Yeah, yeah, passcode, but it needed to be something I’d remember when drunk – and how the hell did you know to try it, and didn’t get locked out? I hope you haven’t posted anything silly on my blog. Oh god, I’m so self-important. Sorry._

_I remember your tattoo – it was impressive. It matched your eyes._

_Gratefully,_

_Enjolras (blond guy with Orwell t shirt on) (and yes, hungary is very pretty. but last time I went I nearly got dissolved by toxic sludge in the danube so I’m loathe to risk it too soon. my friend Bossuet does law, but he likes films – by which I mean we have to watch lots of incomprehensible films in French. everyone seems to die. maybe he can do your adaptation. I do history with politics, by the way)_

He sent it before he could talk himself out of it, and then read until he fell asleep.

_____

 

The next day was still sunny. Enjolras watched a few leaves drift listlessly past the window of the room in which he was having his seminar, and tried to focus on his work. His mind fizzed, effervescent with thoughts of Grantaire, his hands, his eyes. Courfeyrac, next to him, was half-yelling about the miners’ strikes. Enjolras thought, suddenly, that he had been so distracted by Grantaire that unless he were careful, the whole of the first term would fly by him. He forced himself to focus, and by lunchtime he had a slight headache.

“Burrito?” Courfeyrac asked, spotting Joly and Combeferre coming out of the Spar and speeding towards them. Enjolras nodded. Courfeyrac snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Hey. Come back from Moominland, or wherever – “

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. It was a move he practised in the mirror. “Because I’m white and cuddly?”

“You’re definitely white,” said Joly. “Speaking as a token ethnic minority, I don’t know if you’re allowed to eat burritos,” he said seriously.  Courfeyrac looked at him balefully, until Joly snorted, and high-fived Combeferre.

“Fuck’s sake,” Courfeyrac said, good-naturedly. "You're fucking _Cornish anyway - "_

"I'm half-Cornish - who are now, by the way, an officially designated minority group - and half Peruvian. So, actually, even though I'm white-passing - "

"Want some burrito? Or maybe, like, a guinea pig pasty?" said Courfeyrac, and Joly hit him with a plastic fork, laughed, and nodded. 

Enjolras thought that Courfeyrac was easy to wind up and easy to calm down, whereas he himself had once had his temper described as “magnesium” by a science teacher. Courfeyrac proceeded to eat the rest of his burrito with his mouth open.

“Gross,” said Combeferre, rolling his eyes. He looked at Enjolras, who was shredding a paper napkin between his fingers. “You seem – a little troubled,” he said, softly. Enjolras looked at him.

“Well,” he started, and then he stopped. “Grantaire emailed me – he found my phone – “

“Oh my god,” Joly said. “Did you like, name your phone. Does your mum still sew your name into your pants? Are your socks ironed?”

“Shut up,” said Bossuet, sitting down next to him. “And stop eyeing up the burrito girl – I saw her first,” and he grinned at Joly.

“He found my _phone_ ,” Enjolras went on, glaring at both of them, “and yes, I’m ignoring your reduction of a woman to her job, for now – he found my phone. He emailed me. He’s funny. He’s read Stieg Larsson and he’s been to Hungary, and he thinks I have a funny run – “

“You do,” broke in Combeferre. “You always have, even when we were in primary school,” and Enjolras glared at him. He shrugged. “It’s true. Anyway, when are you seeing him next? You actually wore your shoes without holes in today, so I’m assuming – “

“At three,” confirmed Enjolras. His heart was beating so loudly he was surprised that, wherever Grantaire was, he couldn’t hear it. As he tried to calm down by eating a Fruit Corner, he heard the clock tower strike quarter to three. “Oh, god,” he muttered, and started to gather his stuff.

“Use a condom!” yelled Courfeyrac after him. Enjolras hoped he didn’t blush.


End file.
